


Fugue: Aftermath

by Pink_Dalek



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen, post-episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:12:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Dalek/pseuds/Pink_Dalek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morse goes home after the Gull case, takes Fred's advice, and finds out he's got good neighbors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fugue: Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Rewatching "Fugue" (again) I thought Morse needed a bit of peace and understanding at the end, so I waved my FanficAuthor Wand and gave him some. Fred needed some too, but he's got family to look after him.
> 
> Also, I want to thank everyone who's left comments and kudos on my stories. I'm so glad people enjoy them!

_"Go home. Put your best record on, loud as it'll go."_

Morse made sure he wasn't needed at the station before he caught the bus home. Once there he hung up his coat, poured himself a Scotch, and fell bonelessly into a chair, staring into space. It took awhile to stir himself. The post-adrenaline crash, combined with exhaustion, left him unwilling to move. Finally, having finished his drink, he decided to take Fred's advice. It was still early in the evening; no one was likely to be trying to sleep. He sorted through his records, settling on _Turandot_. He really should get a phonograph with a headphone jack, he reflected. At least this case, horrible as it had been, would result in a nice chunk of overtime next paycheck. He'd do it then.

In the meantime he scribbled a quick note of apology to the neighbors and tacked it to his door. Hopefully it would keep people from banging on his door about the noise. Then he poured a second drink and turned up the music. He sprawled on his bed, eyes closed, sipping Scotch and losing himself in Puccini.

After an hour he turned it down and started putting together a quick supper. After that, a long soak in the bathtub, pyjamas, and he was ready to settle in with a book of poetry before calling it a night. At the last minute, he remembered the note on the door and went to remove it.

Opening the front door, he was surprised to see there were additions to his original message. He had written:

_I'm sorry about the loud music. I'm a DC at Cowley, and we just caught the man responsible for a string of murders over the last several days. I'll turn it down by nine. Thanks for your understanding, and I promise I'll get headphones next payday.  
\--Morse_

Written beneath it was a simple _Thank you for catching him. I'll sleep better tonight. Sarah in 1A_

Under that was _Good show! I'll buy you a pint when you like. George from 1B_

And finally _You do what you need. I'll check on you later. Lottie Morton from across the way._ Mrs. Morton was the only person he'd exchanged more than brief greetings and nods with, and that only because they shared the landing and the grey-haired widow was naturally friendly and made a point of knowing everyone in the building. 

As if reading the note had alerted her, the opposite door opened. "Hello, love. Feeling better, I hope?"

"Er-- yes, thank you."

"Good. It's thanks to people like you the rest of us can sleep at night. Hang on-- I baked earlier." She disappeared into her own flat, no bigger than his, but painted in light colors, furnished in chintz, and smelling of the lavender she grew in pots on the fire escape. She returned with two buns wrapped in a napkin. "I hope you like blueberries." She placed them in his hands.

"Oh-- thank you. You really don't have to-- "

"But I want to. See you tomorrow, love."

Back in his flat, Morse broke off a bit of one of the buns on the way to the kitchenette, tasted it, and melted. Everyone in the building knew when Mrs. Morton was baking, and her baking tasted as good as it smelled. He was going to have a real treat for breakfast. After a lie-in; tomorrow would be Sunday, and he didn't plan to get out of bed until he had to.

He had a last thought. He turned over his original note and wrote two words on it, _Thank You_ ,fastened it to the door, and went to bed.

He was asleep the moment his head touched the pillow, his dreams mercifully peaceful.


End file.
